Iceman
by junejuly15
Summary: Johnlock/Post-Irene. A few confessions and kisses at 221B Baker Street. Dialogue/Humour/Romance


**Update Feb 25: **This story was inspired by a fanvid which suggested that Irene told Sherlock a nickname that Mycroft uses for him: Iceman. When I wrote this story I hadn't actually seen _Scandal in Belgravia_ so I didn't know that these had been actually Moriarty's nicknames for the Holmes Boys: Mycroft the Iceman and Sherlock the Virgin. But somehow I had he same idea as Moriarty regarding Sherlock's virginal state :-)

Enjoy reading!

Obviously I don't own anything...

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><p><strong>Iceman <strong>

Sherlock was lying on his unmade bed, thinking. The expressions shadowing his face were changing from disgust to exasperation to boredom and back to disgust. His head, propped up on a pillow, was leaning against the wooden headrest. He hadn't bothered to dress and was still in his pyjamas. One arm was hanging down the side of the bed fiddling with the light switch of the bedside lamp. Click: on; click: off; click: on. Constantly.

'Sherlock? Where are you?'

Sherlock lazily turned his head to where the call had come from. He didn't bother responding and continued switching the lamp on and off and on. He heard John walking around in the flat; imagined him shedding off his jacket and leaving it on the sofa. He heard him ranging the groceries in the kitchen cupboards and the fridge, softly cursing under his breath and then John's soft footsteps coming up to his bedroom door. There was a tentative knock and the door opened. Light fell in from the hallway, Sherlock switched the bedside lamp off.

'Sherlock? What are you doing? Sitting there, all alone in the dark,' John asked.

'That's my life,' Sherlock answered morosely.

'What is?'

'Alone in the dark.'

John raised an eyebrow, 'Oh, I see. We've got the blues then, haven't we?'

Sherlock laughed mirthlessly. 'The _blues_? That's what they call it?'

'Well, yes; you know, sitting around, in the dark, alone. Moping, feeling sorry for yourself. Feeling miserable - lonely.' John walked over to the chair opposite Sherlock's bed and with a grunt sat down in it. 'I know exactly how that feels.'

John switched on the lamp on the side table next to the chair and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock stopped fiddling with the light switch. He averted his eyes, looking sullen.

'Do you? How can you? You've always had people around you.'

John frowned 'And what makes you so sure that I never feel lonely?'

'Because _you_ know how to connect with people. You know how they feel, what they feel,' Sherlock burst out and he sounded almost accusing.

Like a little boy, John thought. 'And you don't? You of all people don't know what other people feel?' John replied, incredulous.

'No, _I_ don't.' Sherlock said with exasperation. 'That's why Mycroft calls me Iceman - Irene told me,' he broke off and looked away again.

John put his head in his hands and tiredly rubbed at his temples. He let out a sigh. 'Right. Now we're getting somewhere. Mycroft and Irene. _The duo sent from hell._' Sherlock shortly glanced up John. 'Why do you care what Mycroft thinks? Let alone that woman.'

John got up from the chair and walked over to Sherlock. He sat down next to him on his bed, leaning against the headrest as well, not quite sure if Sherlock was ready for contact. He did indeed keep his distance, deeply in thought.

John glanced at him; he felt boredom, sadness and something else emanating from him. And yes, it felt like coldness. John's heart clenched and instinctively he reached out and took Sherlock's hand. Sherlock let him, and surprisingly felt some tension drain away from him.

When he started speaking again, it was in a low voice, as if talking to himself.

'I'm better off being the Iceman anyway. What good did it do to me? All these _feelings_.' He pronounced the word as if it was something distasteful. 'I feel like a spit-out chewing gum.'

John pressed his hand 'Sherlock, when you love…'

'I didn't!'

'No, I know, you didn't. But when you feel, strongly feel, there is always the possibility of disappointment, of being let-down…'

'That's why it's better to keep a distance,' Sherlock said, sounding very determined. John felt an almost overwhelming need to help him out of this mood, to find something to comfort him and most importantly to find something to convince him that he got it completely wrong.

'It might appear to you like that now, Sherlock. But you see this is only one side of the medal. When there's dark, there's also light.'

'Thank you for your sound advice, Mrs. Hudson!' Sherlock said sarcastically.

'Well. Yes. You know what I mean,' John added sheepishly.

'I don't, actually,' Sherlock was quick to answer.

'Sherlock, just because you got hurt this time, it doesn't mean it will happen again. Or that your feelings are wasted. They never are and if you're honest with yourself you'll have to admit you know that.'

John felt Sherlock relax slightly. He moved nearer to Sherlock, let go of his hand and put his arm around him. Sighing Sherlock let his head sink on John's chest.

'You make me wonder,' Sherlock mumbled, nuzzling close to his neck.

'What does?'

'Nothing, you just make me wonder.'

'Oh, okay.'

Sherlock had done it again. He managed to relax but left John confused. But he felt content that he had been able to calm him. He knew exactly what he had been through and what had brought along this maudlin mood. He feared those moods, feared for Sherlock. But there was also anger when he thought of Mycroft and of that woman. He had watched helplessly when Sherlock and Irene had been pacing around each other like two mighty predators, trying to find a weak spot. Ready to pounce - And who for God's sake dares having a text alert like that?

He had sensed and seen Sherlock's fascination for her. And no matter the reason for that fascination it had still hurt.

He looked down at Sherlock. At his face. His clear features more peaceful now. Sherlock seemed calmer, almost drifting off into sleep. They were content to lay like that for a while in calm closeness.

'You know, John?'

'What, Sherlock?'

'What I told you is not true.'

'What do you mean?'

'I told you that I had no friends.'

John smiled and kissed Sherlock on the forehead, smoothing down some unruly curls with his fingers. Sherlock let him and continued in a quiet voice 'Living a normal life is a struggle for me.'

'I know, but…'

'Let me, please. John, I've never told you, but I want to now.'

John felt apprehensive, but he was quiet. He caressed Sherlock's long, slender fingers.

'Feelings are always hard for me; so hard to fathom. Human interactions are a really difficult area.' He paused. 'And the biggest incentive of all – love.' Another pause. 'I never felt love. I don't know how that feels; what it does to a person. I never received _tender loving care_ when I was a child. My mother despised me, basically told me I was scum unworthy to be loved.'

John closed his eyes, the image of a small miserable boy flashing in front of him. It made him sad. He almost missed it when Sherlock continued.

'So, I didn't.'

'What?'

'Love, I just didn't. I lived, I used my brain, I solved crimes. I existed.' He was quiet for a moment, collecting his thoughts. 'But then you came into my life and something happened to me and,' he halted again. When he continued his voice was barely audible. 'You gradually opened up my heart. That's why she could get to me.'

Sherlock weaved his fingers through John's, interlocking them and John's heart constricted. Sherlock had never told him, they had never talked about their _relationship_. John wasn't even sure if what they had could be remotely called like that.

They had certainly grown very close to each other over the last months. John knew how he felt about Sherlock. And yes, there had been physical contact; the odd hug that lasted a little longer or a peck on the cheek that wasn't strictly necessary. They were more than flatmates but less than lovers.

Sherlock softly went on. 'You were the one to teach me that there's more to life than intellect and that people offer more than being just an object for analysis. You make me aware how dreadfully I treat people sometimes. How shameful my behavior was towards Molly.'

John listened intently to Sherlock's quiet monologue, he didn't dare interrupting him. He wanted him to go on.

'But I know now that _you_, John, not Irene, are my heart.'

Yes! John thought and felt like punching a fist in the air. Inwardly he idiotically grinned from ear to ear.

'Irene was so confusing. I feel like I was being manipulated all the time; as if she tricked me into feeling for her. She was fascinating, sexy, incredibly clever and cunning, I give you that. She was really one of my league.'

John felt a sting and couldn't refrain himself from asking 'And I'm not?'

Sherlock sat up and half-turned to study John's face. The face that he had grown so used to, and more. He gently took John's face into his hands and looked straight into his eyes.

'No. You're not,' he said. 'You are in a league above me. You are human, you are my humanity.'

John blinked. Then he sighed theatrically.

'Thank goodness! And I thought you'd just fallen for my athletic body!'

Sherlock pinched his cheeks and started to giggle like a schoolboy. This giggle was so infective that John couldn't help but joining in, and after the laughter had died away they settled down on the bed again. This time Sherlock put his hand confidently on John's belly and snuggled up close to him. They enjoyed the ensuing silence.

'When I said I have never loved I meant something else as well,' Sherlock said in a timid voice after a while. 'I've never experienced the kind of love when you…, well, you know. When you… two people together… being,' he hesitated, 'please don't make me say it.'

'What on earth are you talking about? Please, give me a hint," John teased him.

Sherlock winced, but then he continued 'I mean, being together with somebody - Intimately - Doing _things_.'

Sherlock was quiet again, embarrassed. John couldn't help himself, but somehow he enjoyed the awkwardness Sherlock had to endure. And he felt flattered and privileged and exhilarated at the same time.

'_Things?_' John repeated.'I'm sure I can show you some _things_,' he said in a husky voice.

He gently extricated himself from Sherlock's arm and sat up on the bed so that he could look at him. Leaning down he took in his pale beauty and the apprehension on his face. He stroked the soft skin, the sharp angles of his cheekbones. He wasn't surprised when he saw fear in those beautiful eyes. He slowly bent down and brushed his lips over Sherlock's mouth, then kissed him on the left cheek. When Sherlock didn't react he moved on to the corner of his mouth. Nothing. He placed little kisses on his lips. Sherlock still didn't respond.

'If you like it you can respond to it, you know.'

'Oh, I see.'

And when John kissed Sherlock for real, Sherlock did indeed respond. Tentatively at first. But then he got the hang of it. John broke off to catch his breath.

'Not so icy this man, after all,' John panted and Sherlock grinned. Irresistibly.

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><p><strong>AN** I hope you liked it! Reviews would be lovely! There are three follow-up stories: _Sherlock and John_, _Domestic Bliss_ and _Jealous Guy_ :-)


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